


A Silent Glow

by FlightFeathers



Category: Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: Anger, Angst, Frustration, Gen, Hurt, Loneliness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-05
Updated: 2015-06-05
Packaged: 2018-04-03 00:10:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4079170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlightFeathers/pseuds/FlightFeathers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After fifty years of getting no answers, Jack Frost gets angry, and tries to do the impossible: freezing the Moon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Silent Glow

**Author's Note:**

> My first RotG fanfiction. I hope you will enjoy. Also, this was first posted on ff.net.

The world was a bad, bad place …

"It is true, isn't it?" Jack asked, looking up at the clear night sky, at Man in the Moon. What made him think of the world like that? Because it thought it better that he be left invisible, to make him feel loneliness. (Sometimes –  _many a times_ , though he'd never admit it – he doubted his own hope of turning visible, one day,  _someday_ ,  _any day_. And the world brought the doubts.)

_Silence._

"Right, Man in the Moon," he said. "Quit your little game of never answering me."  _Like everyone in this world. Just. Quit. It._

_Silence._

"I'll give you another chance …" He wanted to laugh at himself  _so hard_ because he was giving  _chances_ to the guy sitting in the moon? He … He pulled him out of the  _darkness_. (He didn't  _require_ any chances – not from him, not from  _Jack Frost_ ; he could effortlessly and willingly give his own self some.) "So, let's try again, okay?" He raised his brows as he said the last word for emphasis.

The world was a cruel, cruel place …

"Am I right?" he said to the silver ball. What made him think of the world like that? Because it thought it better to run through him, to make him feel  _hollow_. (Sometimes –  _many a times_ , though he'd never admit it – he doubted his own existence, like the past fifty years were a lie. And the world brought the doubts.)

_Silence._

"Okay, I admit, I changed my statement a  _tad_ bit, but what I mean is the same. So stop acting so grumpy and answer me." He even –  _dear Lord, he wished nobody saw him_  (as if they did before anyway) – widened his eyes and puckered his lower lip. " _Please_?"

_Silence._

"When you ask a question, you have to answer. It's rude if you don't." (He had learned that because he felt hurt when _nobody_   _answered_.)

The Moon just continued to glow.

"Answer," he whispered. " _Answer._ "

_Silence._

And it continued to glow.

(Honestly, it was hurting his  _eyes_.)

"Please. Please –  _answer_."

It remained silent.

(And it glowed, glowed, glowed, glowed.)

His eyes stared at the lifeless sphere hanging in the sky, glowing, glowing, glowing.

(Like everything was bright and happy and all right and peaceful in this world.)

He squinted, his eyes still fixed upon the Moon.

(But the Moon should know that everything was dull and sad and  _not_ all right and  _not_ peaceful in  _his_ world.)

And waited.

(It was useless telling him – he had known that from the start.)

(Oh, and it was still glowing.)

The irritation built, and the emotions started to make him want to puke, or shout out – or  _cry_ and cry and cry and cry and cry and  _cry_.

(The Moon was shining with all its brilliance, and he was  _fighting_. And losing – piteously.)

(And it unvaryingly glowed.)

And everything collided then.

How … How  _dare_  it glow when he was losing hope? _Oh, how – how dare it ignore him_ ,  _Jack Frost_ , like that? How  _dare_ that man – and he wasn't even sure if there was a  _man_  in that … that  _Moon –_ just  _sit_ there, on his sofa (or whatever he was sitting on), and look at him – though Jack didn't even  _know_ whether he was looking at him or not – with that b- _blank_ look? How – how … Who gave him the right to just shut  _up_? ( _Did he make a pledge or something?_ ) Did he even have a  _mouth_ or a  _tongue_? Did he even talk? Did he  _see_? Did he –  _could he see_ that he was dying whenever he breathed? …  _And he didn't even want to breathe now because he was going to die breathing anyway, so why breathe, right?_ … And Moony – yeah, he'd call him  _that –_  was so, so  _bad – just like the world and he was a part of it so he was bad –_ that he wanted to kill him and Jack was so, so  _mad_ because he was talking to a ball which reflected the light of the Sun – it didn't even have its own  _light_ , for God's sake! There was no – no  _Moony_ ; no, there wasn't!

_But there is,_ he thought.

"If you are out there, then, please – please, say  _something_."

…

" _Anything_."

…

Tears welled up in his eyes, threatening to fall. He bowed his head, and tried to breathe in and out  _slowly_ ,  _deeply_ , so he could  _stop –_  just  _stop –_  his breath from shuddering any further. His throat was constricted, and he wanted to let out a sob, which was begging to be freed.

But, oh, he would not  _cry_. He was a – a  _strong_  spirit; he wouldn't,  _couldn't_ cry, because he … Because …

And his conflicts became his anger, and he was no longer going to  _cry_.

Because nothing was  _his_  fault. Absolutely  _nothing_. And if someone was to be blamed, it was that sadistic, malicious, good-for-nothing, unhelpful, evil  _Man in the Moon_! No answer, no nothing; instead, he stayed quiet – he stayed silent, and just  _glow_ _ed_ , as if that would answer anything.

It had been more than  _fifty_ years and he was having  _none_ of it!

"You answer me!" he yelled, raising his staff.

…

"You answer me, Moon!" he yelled in the silence, pulling his staff towards himself, his free hand grasping the wood, too.

The wind, hearing a voiceless command, lifted Jack from the ground, in the air, above the trees, nearer to the moon. It blew, running through his white locks, making the trees under him sway, making the clouds above him move.

Jack blue eyes flashed, like thunder, like the storm he would so often create, like the harsh, flesh-tearing winds he would summon in Antarctica, with all his anger, with all his internal war, with all his emptiness.

And a storm so obediently accompanied him, assisted him, supported him; it made the trees lean back, made the snow fall, made everything misty.

Jack yelled at the top of his lungs, and tried to  _finish_ , just  _finish_ the Moon. He'd then understand what it felt like to break, because he was going to  _freeze_ him, and shatter him.

From his very toes a feeling that felt something like electricity rose, running through his veins, making him quiver, shiver, shake; it made its way, turning his cold insides  _colder_. It ran, fast like lightning, dangerous as his storms –  _his storms within_. And the power, the surge of energy spread in his legs, to his stomach – causing it to ache – to his chest (which  _c_ _ould_  have burst), and it expanded, divided, and entered his arms ( _which shook_ ) and to the tips of his long, pale fingers, which turned something between red and blue. The power left him (and it felt as if irritation, impatience just flew out of him – with his bodily cold), joining his staff, and it colored a bright,  _bright_  blue – a bluish white of ice and snow – from the place where Jack held it, to its whole self, and it escaped it.

The sky brightened with cold lightning, blue and white and  _electric_ blue with  _rage_ and  _impatience_ Jack owned. It directed its attack towards the silver ball of light.

But it wasn't powerful enough, or maybe the Moon was too far away, because it never froze – and Jack never got the chance to shatter it to pieces.

But he didn't care, because he was  _falling_ ,  _falling_ ,  _falling_ , before the light glowed in the sky, before he saw the lightning strike.

He was drained. (Of all emotions, of all energy.) He could feel the air, caressing him, cradling him – in slow motion, he imagined it. But he couldn't feel his body. He felt he was descending the height, but he didn't  _know_  he was. His chest was hurting – he could faintly make it out. His legs were cut off from his body; his arms could be seen, but the blood wasn't  _circulating_. He was on fire, because he was burning … Or he felt  _cold_  – and he  _never_ felt cold.

(He was breathing, he thought, or maybe not.)

(His heart was beating, he felt, but maybe not.)

He was dead –  _dying_  …

He was weak. And, before he jumped into unconsciousness, he saw the dark blue sky, with the Moon painfully shining.

_Silently_ shining …

**Author's Note:**

> I hope it is not rushed in the end. And, yes, Jack still has legs, firmly attached. Yes, he is alive, but weak. Thank you for taking your time for reading this. :)


End file.
